A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

The wind bit hard at High Elder Grellin's robes as he ascended the cliff path. Even through layers of silk and wool, the cold still penetrated into his skin.

The Sanctum of Isolation loomed ahead.

These steps hadn't been walked in nearly a century, not since Lady Aurelith's generation when one of her siblings had to be imprisoned.

The sanctum had been carved from the cliff face a millennia ago, its purpose clear in every line of its construction: to break Godbeasts.

'No heir has lasted here without coming out tamed,' he thought grimly.

Two years. Two years in silence. Whatever insolence had driven Pophet's tongue back at the council should have been scoured clean by now.

Acolytes walked with him, robes tugged by the wind as they arrived. The four clerics stood by the sanctum door, hands pressed against its surface as they whispered incantations.

"Begin," Grellin commanded.

One by one, the suppression runes glowed and cracked. The air rippled with a sudden pressure as the seals broke.

Grellin muttered a prayer under his breath. "May the light guide the Godbeast's spirit."

The massive door creaked open, wards still hissing as they unraveled.

And then, he saw it.

A shadow lazily moved within. A hulking shape stepped forward, slowly.

Pophet, the Gentle Faith that Echoes.

But he was not the Pophet Grellin had remembered.

The beast was taller now, at least four feet taller than he had been when they locked him away. His fur looked a bit darker now, with a few golden threads of what looked to be mana seeping into the surface. His eyes were sharper, focused in a way Grellin had not expected.

For a heartbeat, Grellin wondered if this was still the mutt they had deemed unworthy.

Pophet's gaze flicked to him.

"Two years already?" The pug's voice was deeper now, still lazy, but there was a calm weight behind it that made the clerics stiffen. "I barely noticed."

"Your confinement is complete," Grellin said, keeping his voice even. "The Council awaits your presence for reintegration into Sunmire's order."

Pophet tilted his head, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off sleep. His massive frame seemed even larger as he stretched, joints cracking audibly.

Then he placed one paw on the edge of the sanctum door.

There was no visible effort.

The enchanted sunsteel door—woven with suppression runes and blessed to endure the tantrums of Godbeasts—snapped free of its hinges like paper.

It flew from the sanctum with a sound like splitting stone, tumbling down the mountainside until it vanished below.

The cliffs trembled.

Grelin froze, mouth dry.

That door had been designed to withstand divine wrath. Not even Aurelith at Pophet's age could tear one free without breaking a sweat.

Pophet yawned, sharp teeth flashing faintly in the sanctum's fading glow.

"The door annoyed me."

The air felt warmer than I remembered.

I stood at the threshold for a moment, letting it fill my lungs. Two years in silence had dulled the taste of the world.

I stepped out of the sanctum.

The stone path under my paws was narrow but steady. Wind swept across the cliffside, tugging at my fur, yet I didn't feel the chill.

In the beginning, the cage had been unbearable.

I'd worn a path in the stone from pacing. My claws had scraped at walls that didn't yield. I had barked multiple times out of frustration, and the echo had mocked me until my throat ached.

That part of me that felt small, soft, and helpless didn't survive the first month.

But when I stopped moving, I started building.

Each inhale drew in Qi. Each exhale refined it, folding it into my flesh, my bones, my chest-core.

I will not be the Godbeast who longed for my previous life's warmth anymore.

'Now, I will be what Lady Aurelith birthed me to be.'

The door belonging to Sunmire's highest human position crashed open, splinters scattering across polished stone.

Grand Solar Vicar Talem looked up with his quill frozen mid-stroke as papers fluttered off his desk.

My massive frame filled the doorway. And as I entered, my fur brushed against the carved arch.

Talem didn't move. He set the quill aside and folded his hands carefully.

"…Pophet." His voice was low, almost cautious. "It's been two years."

I said nothing.

"I won't pretend I wasn't complicit," Talem admitted after a pause. "You were sent there because the conservatives pushed hard for your confinement. I lacked the leverage to stop them."

His fingers tightened slightly around each other. "My hand was forced, and it will only continue to be that way until my replacement. The conservative faction has only grown stronger."

My gaze didn't waver.

However, Talem pushed a stack of papers aside, pulling out a detailed map of Sunmire and the surrounding regions. He traced a finger along the jagged eastern border where fresh ink marked battle lines.

"The last two years haven't been idle ones, Pophet. Ferron's assaults have intensified across every front. Our forces hold for now, but only barely."

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

I stayed silent.

"Saphiel, who was dispatched east two years ago, has had effective campaigns to hold the border. Entire Ferron battalions have been crushed under her command.

"Zorthar has regained the territory we pushed into two years ago. They've fortified it now. Taking it back would cost us more than the Council is willing to risk."

He shifted slightly, gathering another sheet.

"Rinvara…" His expression softened for the briefest moment.

My claws flexed against the stone floor.

"She's been under Bishop Tharne's guidance in the south. A plague broke out in the border town. If it were left untreated, it would have swept across an entire region. Rinvara managed to stop it."

Talem's voice lowered. "The Council still doesn't know who she is. They named her the Saintess of the South. Publicly, she's become a symbol of Sunmire's grace."

I exhaled slowly. The fur along my shoulders bristled faintly.

Talem didn't look up. "Vaelric's conquered five high-difficulty dungeons alone. Each one has only raised his fame further. He's a legend now, not just among Sunmire's faithful but across the continent."

The room fell quiet.

Each word pressed heavier than the last.

"While I rotted in that prison," I said at last, my voice low, "everyone else became heroes."

Talem's hand hovered over the map for a moment longer before he pulled it back. The lines of his face seemed heavier now.

"The Inner Sanctum has issued an ultimatum," he said quietly.

I waited.

"A dungeon has emerged in Kethra. Presumed to be a single-instance type. Every expedition so far has failed. No team has survived entry. They want you to clear it."

Of course they did.

"This isn't a mission," I said. My voice was even, but the weight beneath it made Talem flinch. "It's a disposal."

His fingers tightened on the edge of the desk. He didn't deny it.

"They send one of their Godbeasts to aid an ally," I continued. "And at the same time, they remove me permanently."

Two years in silence. Two years where my name had been scrubbed clean from their prayers and proclamations.

I felt the frustration boil, sharp and hot at the edges, but I swallowed it.

No. Not here. Not now.

If this was the game they wanted to play, I'd play it for now.

"Fine," I said, letting the word settle.

Talem's gaze flicked up.

For a moment, Talem looked like he wanted to speak. To warn me. Or to apologize again.

But he didn't.

I turned toward the door, my tail low and steady.

"Have the route and transport ready by tomorrow," I said over my shoulder. "I don't plan on waiting."

And then I left, the sound of my paws echoing against the marble halls.

The air outside Talem's office was still.

I padded into the Basilica's courtyard, stone tiles cool under my paws. Sunlight filtered through the high arches, catching flickers of dust that danced in the quiet.

Above me, clergy moved along the balconies in pale robes, their voices hushed but not silent.

"He's out…"

"Should've just stayed in the Isolation Sanctum…"

They didn't bother hiding their stares. Some narrowed their eyes at the sight of me, lips pressed thin with quiet disdain. Others watched warily, gripping their sleeves like my very presence would dirty them.

I kept walking.

Even now, they were waiting for me to fail.

The tiles stretched on in orderly rows, laid generations ago by hands convinced they were shaping eternity. How many times had I trudged across this courtyard before? Back when I was smaller, softer. A child of Aurelith they all tolerated but never expected to stand among them.

Now their eyes lingered differently from before.

I paused at the edge of the courtyard, letting the breeze tug faintly at my fur.

Eastward. Beyond the Basilica's walls lay the Ferron front. I could almost picture Saphiel there, making every correct decision, weighed and measured. A battlefield moving to her rhythm like clockwork.

Southward. I imagined Rinvara in saintly robes, her hands aglow as she worked to heal the dying. The faithful calling her name with reverence, never knowing what she'd endured to stand among them.

Did she even remember me? That dawn I carried her out of Ferron's stronghold felt distant now.

And Vaelric. Where was he now? Buried deep in another dungeon, or standing triumphant over its ruins as musicians inked his victories into song?

I had no songs. No titles chanted in the streets. Only two years of silence and a death sentence dressed as diplomacy.

This is the weight of a Godbeast heir.

And as I promised, I will confront it.

The next day.

The airship gates loomed ahead, their wrought-iron lattice glinting faintly in the midday sun.

I stood at the edge of the Basilica's docking platform, paws steady on the steel platform as the wind swept.

Beyond these borders, far across the horizon, lay Kethra.

A fishing nation first and always. Its people were born to salt air and storm-tossed decks, their lives tied to the sea's moods.

Long before Sunmire rose to prominence, Kethra's coastal cities had built shrines to their ocean gods—spirits of waves, tides, and endless depths. Centuries ago, when the warring period was at its peak, threatening to drown their fleets, they'd forged an alliance with Sunmire.

Now they called on a Godbeast's support.

And the Council had chosen me to answer.

Not out of trust. Not out of respect.

I had no maps of this dungeon. No reports of its terrain, no hints of the beasts or traps lurking within. Only rumors: every expedition had failed. No survivors. No bodies recovered.

A single-instance dungeon.

A death sentence, neatly wrapped in duty.

They expect me to be consumed in there. Lost in the dark.

I flexed my claws against the steel floor, feeling the Qi hum low and steady in my chest.

I am not the same beast they buried two years ago.

Let them watch.

Let them whisper.

I will make them tremble.

I will carve my existence into this world.

〈Pophet, The Gentle Faith That Echoes〉

[Mana: 0 / 0]

[Skills: 5]

Skill: Breath of the Heavenly Pug

In its infancy, the beast drew in life with a quiet, measured rhythm. Qi flowed only in stillness, and stillness was all it knew.

But the breath has deepened. The beast no longer rests; it dreams.

With each rise and fall of its chest, spiritual energy gathers like the tide beneath a full moon. The air itself grows heavy in its presence, as if inviting the world to pause and breathe alongside it.

The pug sleeps, and yet the heavens tremble.

Stage: Nascent Soul

Skill: Thousand Fats Body Compression

A secret technique born from the ancient and mostly-forgotten ██████████████, this minor art was developed by low-ranking disciples who needed to evade both danger and responsibility with equal grace. By tightening the meridians and weaving Qi, the user may compress their physical vessel into a deceptively diminutive form.

Practitioners of this technique once used it to sneak past gatekeepers, hide beneath floorboards, or nap inside sacred urns to avoid morning drills. While compressed, power output is greatly reduced.

Legends say true masters could vanish into a teacup. You, however, are pug-shaped and still squishy.

Skill: Claw Intent

A martial resonance born not from the blade's cold precision, but from a beast's raw will to impose its truth. Where swordsmen speak of splitting the world cleanly in two, this art rejects such binaries entirely.

To claw is not to divide; it is to rend. To tear jagged lines into which exists. To leave behind scars that speak louder than any cut. Four strokes at once, not one. Four truths carved into the world.

This intent does not manifest visibly, but the world remembers where it has been.

Skill: Empty Stomach Devours Poison

The demonic beast's stomach is not just a vessel for food. Where others falter at toxins and venom, it consumes them.

What enters as poison in its body is ground into marrow-deep nourishment. What burns the veins of lesser creatures only serves to fatten its core.

Let the world's filth come. The pug will eat it all.

Skill: Invincible Golden Pugoda

Through constant tempering, the beast's physical vessel has reached a state of perfect stability. Qi circulates throughout the flesh and bones in a closed loop, reinforcing every layer of muscle, skin, and fur.

At this stage, external force cannot easily displace the body.

Momentum-based strikes lose their power on contact; energy disperses across the beast's frame. Blades and claws that might have pierced before now glance off or are absorbed by the dense, qi-fortified fur and tissue.

This technique does not harden the surface like stone, nor does it create visible armor.